


confessional hymns for the devil, himself

by SerenNoir



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Careers are nuts, F/M, First Time, In which Clove is not putting up a front, No established relationship, Slow Build, Welcome to Loserville
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenNoir/pseuds/SerenNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becoming a victim of the Hunger Games isn't the worst thing that could happen. No. The worst thing that could happen is waking up after you've lost. Clove hasn't realized it's not about beating the Games anymore, but about not letting the Games beat you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the concepts of the AU setting are derived from movies like Gamer and a little of the Matrix; they're only mentioned a little in the beginning however. This is not a crossover. All references are going to be made from the book. Shout-out to my beta, who helped out smooth out some inconsistencies and made this beautiful.
> 
> Cross-posted from FF.net because this place is so much cooler. ♥
> 
> Edit (12/16/2013): I've decided to edit this and switch everything to 3rd person just because 1st person narrative was really starting to creep me out.

Clove jerks into consciousness and is caught in a moment where her body is blissfully unaware of the state that it's in. The searing pain in her head is absent temporarily, until she finally clocks back in and it takes her absolutely by surprise, and it's all she can do to keep from screaming out loud. Clove can almost feel herself hemorrhaging, the drag of a thousand red-hot fingers scraping away at her brain. Pushing energy into her stiff limbs, she barely manages to roll onto her side and heave violently over the edge of the gurney. It's not much more than bile, which would have to mean she's been out for at least a day or so.

Clove sinks into the hard surface under her. She learned long ago, as a child, that by lying so, so still you could almost quit existing. It was a useful technique on those days that her incompetency and failures during her training overwhelmed her. She waits until the sound of her heartbeat has dulled to a soft whisper before she begins to take in her surroundings. The room is a pale shade of green and smells faintly of antiseptic and cotton. There's a large glass window directly in front of her, but the blinds are drawn to keep people from peering in and her from seeing out.

Clove's head still throbs agonizingly, and she tries to block out the reason why that is. It's a futile effort, though. Images of Thresh grasping her between his two large hands and then banging her skull savagely with a large rock scramble around all the questions that are just waiting to be acknowledged in her pounding head. She remembers what it felt like to die, remembers how painful it had been to lie on that soft grass in the arena and just wait till her life slipped away.

Cato had knelt above her and begged her to stay with him. Clove hadn't been able to tell then if he was being sincere or why exactly he had rushed to her aid to begin with. She wishes she had found the last remains of her strength in her broken body to ask him, but her vision had been completely consumed by brightness that had overtook her as soon as Thresh disappeared.

Cautiously, she raises a shaky hand to her throat; it still feels raw from screaming. Pain is confusing in this current realm Clove's in. If she remembers dying clearly enough, then why does everything still hurt? She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. No. This isn't purgatory. She never did have an affinity for religion or afterlives so the only viable reason that she's breathing now upon this table is that the Capitol saw fit to bring her back. How they accomplished this is frightening, but she tries not to dwell on it right now.

Breathing through her nose, Clove sits up as carefully and fluidly as possible. Immediately, her head aches worse than before, and she swallows rapidly to keep from getting sick again. A lightweight white gown hangs around her small frame just falling past her knees.

Sheer willpower has her touching her feet to the cold floor; her limbs seem so shaky, and she's not positive that her head and stomach will hold up to the change in equilibrium. Half-leaning onto the bed, Clove takes in the rest of the room. There is a glass door across from her; that definitely deserves an investigation. Aside from that, the room is devoid of everything except the gurney and herself. It's sterile. Could she be in a med clinic?

“H-hello?” The syllables break out of her throat roughly, and the sound of her own voice almost has Clove clamping her mouth shut. Silence answers.

Gripping the bare tile with her toes, she shuffles to the door. The handle twists easily under her hand. It's enough to make Clove pause, a cold electrical charge sweeping through her chest. An unlocked door in an otherwise barren room? No one to greet her when she woke up?

Clove wonders whether this is a poorly-disguised trap or the people who've held her here have deserted the place. It's warm out in the hallway though, and it's enough to steady her resolve. Her door is situation at the end of the hall and from her vantage point, Clove can see what looks like the remains of a scuffle. A sister metal bed is lying on its side along with a pair of bright yellow restraints; the ends still screwed tightly onto the bed's sides. The room adjacent is in the same haphazard condition. Someone was here at some point and they were not happy.

"Sir, he cannot process so much in so little time! Please allow me to administer the sedative." The voice echoes down the corridor from somewhere around the corner, warbled and pleading.

 “He was one of our strongest Tributes; a little pain will not incapacitate him.”

The second voice is familiar and along with it comes the image of the cruel, cold eyes of a snake.

Snow.

Snow is here and if anybody has the answers it would be him. The mystery of who has, more or less, resurrected her is no more though the pill is a little hard to swallow. As a Career, she never had a second thought about what the Capitol was capable of; it was so easy to follow along with their wishes when the rewards were so great. Careers had won the Games year after year through the opportunities afforded to them by the Capitol. _This_ did not make sense, however.

Clove knows she could play this one of two ways: barrel towards them irate and wild, or go back to her room as though she'd never left. She had always been one for theatrics, and so she's poised and ready to let loose all her confusion and frustration on the two men when she hears it. When she hears _him._ It stops her cold in her tracks. He sounds muffled, like he is speaking through his hands but her chest still lurches at the familiarity of his voice.

Had Cato won?

Is he the reason she's standing here and breathing instead of laying six feet under dirt? Relief swims through the agony still pounding through her head. Cato winning means everything in their district; the difference between life and death. She pushes herself forward down the hall and through the open door where their voices were first heard.

Cato and the other unknown man stare at her, bewildered, as Clove steps further into the room, though Snow outright avoids her gaze. Perhaps he suspected she had been lurking out in the hallway the whole time. Cato suddenly lunges at the President, outraged.

 “You sick fuck! Her, too? How many of the others did you bring back?!” he spits, struggling against the hold the strange man has on him.

“So I _am_ alive because of you? What for?”Clove directs this question at Snow, but he looks like he would want nothing more than to ignore her, but she's now the elephant in the room and there isn't much he can do about it now. Cato stops struggling against his restraints, seemingly interested in what Snow has to say for himself.

Unsurprisingly, he makes an aborted motion for the other man to explain for him. Clove gets a good look at this stranger for the first time. Cato towers over him and she suspects she does, too. Wisps of gray hair lay over his speckled head in a greasy comb-over, and his lab coat is a dingy off-white. _Doctor_ flashes through her mind briefly, but he looks far too nervous to be of any valuable use to Snow.

“You see,” he begins in his warbly, nervous voice, “we haven’t brought you back at all. You’ve never left. I administered a sedative strong enough to last for a few days, but you and your district partner seem to have woken up ahead of schedule.”

Clove narrows her eyes, angry, and stalks towards him.

“I _died_ in that arena,” she hisses, “That’s not something I could have dreamt up; Thresh killed me as I was going after that District 12 bitch.” Cato allows an expression of hurt cross his face briefly and Clove knows he’s thinking of that day, too. When he had knelt over her and begged for me to stay…

The doctor looks frantic now since Cato has continued to glare murderously at Snow.

“No, no, you never died,” he protests, becoming seemingly more nervous by the minute. “No one did.”

"I don't think you should tell her just yet," Snow finally pipes in. "Clove has never been one for...stability." The insult slides over her but doesn't penetrate; it isn't the first time she's had someone suspect she is a loose cannon.

"Except I want to hear this," Cato interjects, crossing his arms over his chest once the doctor releases him enough to do so. His stance is strong and predatory, so Clove knows there's no way that Snow can just dismiss the whole situation now that Cato has a chance to get at him again. In a fair fight, there would be no hope for the old man against Cato's youth and brute strength. He'll be forced to tell them, even if he does think she's touched in the head.

"Perhaps you would like some pain reliever first?" The doctor's voice is more timid than before and Clove's starting to actually think he believes what Snow said about her, "for your head?" She tries not to question how he knows her head feels like it's threatening to split open, but she recognizes it as a stalling action.

 “No. I feel fine,” she lies effortlessly.

The doctor takes a deep breath and runs a shaking finger along his brow. "The Games were not real. The other tributes and you were never actually present." He looks reluctant to continue. "We interfaced your brains with a simulated arena---".

This time Cato is the one shocked into silence. Herself, however?

She lunges at Snow without hesitation, teeth bared, and it's by sheer timing that the doctor is able to stop her with a sharp needle to the back of the arm before Clove can do any major damage to the thick cord of tendon in Snow's neck. There's no way she trained her entire life to fight in a fake game and still come up the loser.

Snow wants to think she's crazy and disturbed?

Clove will show him disturbed.


	2. Chapter 2

This is the second time in twenty-four hours that Clove finds herself waking up in a strange room alone. This time, however, there is a plush, warm mattress underneath her back instead of the cold, sanitary metal of a gurney. She lies there for a few moments, stubbornly keeping her eyes shut and listening to the sounds of the building creaking around her.

 She's having a hard time piecing together what the doctor had been trying to explain to Cato and her before he jammed his damn sedative into her arm. If the Games were truly fake, then how were they able to accomplish this and still account for all the very realistic deaths in the arena? Clove had drawn first blood during the first dash to the Cornucopia; there had been no mistaking that as the other kid's body crumpled to the ground. So was the male tribute from District Nine alive, too?

 The doctor had mentioned a simulator they interfaced with their brains. Compared to some of the other technology the Capitol came up with, it doesn't seem too far-fetched. But was it possible to build something on such a large scale that everything felt all-too-real for the game players and we were all none the wiser?

 Clove's head doesn't ache which makes her wonder what else was inside that injection besides a sedative. Instead, her entire body feels crushed and shapeless almost as if she spent the whole night on a concrete floor and not in a bed. She finally raises her eyelids, observing the room for the first time. It's bathed in shadows, but there's enough light slanting through the closed shutters that she can make out what's around her. It's identical in appearance to the room Clove stayed in at the Capitol before the Games. Is that where they've taken her?

 She sits up, bracing herself for the vertigo that came on the day before when she did this. Surprisingly, this time there is no crushing pressure or pain. Her thick hair feels cumbersome around her face and it's only when Clove brushes it away from the nape of her neck does she feel the healing scab beneath her fingertips.

 It's hard and about the size of a dime, but it's enough to send her reeling into a state of panic. Clove claws at it furiously, stumbling out of the bed and into the adjoining bathroom for a mirror. The scab is now peeling away underneath her fingernails as she twists her body to get a better view of her neck. It wells with fresh blood  and Clove hastily wipes away the mess. Underneath is a clean, perfectly circular entry wound. She can't see how deep it is and she's not about to probe a finger around to find out.

 Clove's mouth waters as she fights the urge to get sick; she doesn't remember receiving this injury in the arena. The Capitol has inflicted this wound and the placement and proximity to her brain does not escape her radar. Hijacking comes to mind, but the hole is too precise to be that of a tracker jacker stinger and too big to be a syringe.

 This could have been how they interfaced them with the simulator. The idea of someone inserting something in her brain stem has Clove moving quickly to the bedroom door. She turns the knob as it simultaneously swings in towards her. Cato is standing on the other side.

 “Good, you're awake. We need to talk.”

 He brushes past her and she spins on her heel, biting down on her tongue hard. Clove notices Cato has a similar wound nestled between the short, blonde hairs at the nape of his neck. He perches on the edge of the bed, his heavy, muscular frame dwarfing everything around him. Cato makes a habit of making everything around him feel instantly weaker in comparison. It is something Clove's only recently grown accustomed to during their years of training together.

 "So what have you figured out?" She appreciates that Cato thinks enough of her to know that she's capable of coming to her own conclusions about their predicament.

 "They...stuck something in our heads so that we would experience the Games, but we were somehow never actually a part of them." Clove's pacing in frustration at this point. There are too many loose ends that need to be answered, and she doesn't know where to begin. "The dead tributes aren't really dead; their simulations are."

 Her stomach bottoms out suddenly as she realizes what she's implying. "You didn't win." Cato's eyebrows stitch together and he looks away.

 "How could you have not won?" It sounds hypocritical coming out of her mouth, another defeated Tribute, but Clove's bets had always been on herself first, and Cato second.

 "I was close," he replies shortly. The feral look in his eyes convinces her not to press further. "You're right about everything, as far as I can tell. I think they must have knocked us out sometime after we boarded the train after the Reaping; it would have been the easiest time to do so."

 "It also could have been after our interviews. Everything I told Caesar all came out of my head, alone."

 Cato's expression holds sorrow when he looks up at her. “How do you know, Clove? How can you be sure?”

 Her hands fist at her side. How could such a large chunk of her life be missing? The false memories still seem so real to her, so where did she start drawing the line? Cato sits, silent, clasping and unclasping his fingers. It looks as if he wants to add something, but is holding it back instead.

 "Spit it out! If everyone here is going to be keeping secrets from me, like hell you're going to be one of them," Clove snarls, stepping forward and shoving him roughly.

 "One of the District Twelve brats won, I think. Both of them were still alive when I fell. If we're not really dead, does that mean they didn't actually win? It's been eating at me; where are all the others? I thought I was alone until you showed up yesterday."

 "The doctor said we just woke up ahead of time," Clove replies, absentmindedly. Her thoughts are still circulating around what Cato had said about Twelve. How could Cat Piss and Boy Bread Wonder be the winning tributes? They were so pathetic.

 "Meet me outside after you're dressed," Cato breaks through her thoughts. She can tell he has his mind set on something, and in this situation it'd probably be easier to just go along with him than to argue.

 After the door clicks shut behind him, Clove locates a wardrobe right outside the bathroom door hidden by a revolving panel. She borrows a loose-fitting, cotton, buttoned shirt and a pair of unassuming dark pants from its contents. There is a pair of brown leather knee-high boots sitting at the back of the wardrobe and although she has to wrinkle her nose at their feminine cut, they fit on her feet like a second skin.

 The shower yells one last plea for her attention, but she wraps her dark hair in a loose bun at the back of her and heads out the door. Cato is leaning against the wall across from her bedroom, and when he sees her he shoulders away and motions for her to follow. Clove doesn't know how much of the place he's explored as she slept, but he seems to have a good handle on his whereabouts.

 "Have you been outside yet?" she questions, as they pass a window. Clove presses her fingertips up against the glass, peering out. The scenery is a lot like the wilderness she saw as they neared the Capitol. Except it's so quiet and empty here. There are no high-rise apartments and throngs of Capitol citizens mulling in the streets throwing outlandish parties.

 "Yeah, but it was still dark and I couldn't see much. We're in a lowland surrounded by mountains on all sides, and there are about a dozen buildings like ours." She feels his hand touch her shoulder briefly, and she shrugs it off. He may think she wants his pity right now, but that's the furthest from the truth. Feeling sorry for herself is the very last thing on Clove's mind.

 It becomes apparent that they're in a normal two-bedroom house before they even wander upon the small kitchen and sitting room. It's all she can do to hold back a laugh at how domestic it all is. Training on the same team with Cato was a trial; their hopes of them living together in peace will be disastrous. However, Clove doesn't plan on sticking around that long to find out; she'll walk back to District Two if she has to.

 As soon as she steps out the front door, she notices the scent of the juniper trees on the wind. This particular tree grows wild in their district by the numbers. Her walk back home might not be such a feat after all. Cato pauses outside of the front porch, cautiously surveying the similar houses around them. Once he decides they are in no obvious danger, he leads Clove toward a rectangular gray-bricked building at the bottom of a hill towards their left.

 This door is also unlocked; they must forget how dangerous some of the tributes are. How angry some of them still are. They're back in the clinic that she woke up in yesterday, though Cato doesn't seem as surprised.

 "After they had to drug you, the doctor and his assistants escorted me to the house we're staying in. They had to drag you."

 Clove sneers at his smug face. "Why do you deserve special treatment, and I sedatives? You can easily snap their necks; I don't even have my knives with me," she argues.

 "You have your teeth," Cato says simply, "and you did a number on the President's neck. I would have knocked your ass out, too. I was merely trying to threaten them into answering my questions, and you arrive all hell-fire and fury and ruin everything."

 He ruffles her hair roughly. "Like usual, little Clove."

 Clove knocks his hand away angrily. She didn't have much to do with Cato before the Reaping, but it seemed as soon as he volunteered after she did, he went out of his way to piss her off. Though only three months older, he severely underestimated her abilities, and her patience. He made a point to joke with District One's tributes that Clove was his "kid sister" who followed in his "large shadow". Several times during training days, Clove felt like sinking her knives into his soft flesh rather than wooden dummies.

 Cato finds the doctor in his office a moment later, and her anger is redirected at him within a moment's notice. The older man looks up from the documents in front of him, nowhere near as flighty and nervous as he was the night before.

 "We're here to talk, not to maim." Cato says the last bit with a pointed look in her direction, and it takes every ounce of willpower in Clove not to hiss back at him. The doctor seems very relaxed around them now and it makes her wonder if he's medicated himself.

 "I think introductions are in order first. I know who you are, Cato and Clove. My name is Docere. I'm the physician in charge of this facility and the well-being of you two, as well as the rest of the Tributes. President Snow wasn't very cooperative with your questions the first time around, but I've had a long night to think things through."

 Cato shakes the hand the Doctor extends out to him and Clove is taken aback by how polite he can be; she would have never thought he would have a sliver of it in that brutish body of his.

 "So Docere, can you explain to us what this is for?" Cato immediately fires off, directing to the wound on his neck.

 The man's face lights up in excitement. "Oh yes, that! That is my greatest accomplishment! You've probably already come to the conclusion that something was inserted into the back of your head. You're absolutely right about that."  Cato's face blanches and she can feel that sick feeling roiling in her own stomach. Docere must notice, because he waves his hands casually. "Don't worry; it has done no damage aside from that entry wound you see. What I inserted was actually far, far smaller than that."

 "You see," he continues, rifling through a stack of papers on his desk before pushing a diagram towards the two of them, "is that I've invented a microscopic fiber that is carefully inserted through the back of the occipital lobe and into your corpus callosum." He points to a white, meaty layer in the middle of the brain on the page. "In the shortest terms possible, the corpus callosum connects the two hemispheres of your brain and relays messages and signals via axons back and forth. My biosynthetic fiber acts as a Trojan horse and integrates itself as one of the neural fibers. Through it, I was able to send false signals of your time in the arena across the hemispheres."

 Clove processes this slowly as Docere goes on to further explain that they were all "hooked up" shortly after their last interview with Caesar.  Relief floods her as she realizes her time in the training center had all been real memories. That narrows it down to when it all started to become hazy.

 "And there's absolutely no damage done to our brain?" Cato questions, and Clove understands his trepidation at believing the doctor immediately; her own head felt like it was going to explode yesterday.

 The doctor frowns fondly. "The brain is a very tricky and complicated territory. I can promise no physical damage, but it may have compensated for all the fake neural signals with very real sensory repercussions. Have you heard of phantom sensations, Clove?" This is the first time he's directly spoken to her since they entered his office, and she's surprised for a moment before finding her voice.

 "I know about it. One of the Peacekeepers in the Nut lost his leg during the Rebellion, and he said he could still feel it sometimes." The doctor nods.

 “Yes, tell me Clove, how did you perish in the arena?” She immediately feels vulnerable and ashamed of her death; she was not a martyr. She had her skull indented in by an angry boy with a big rock. Worse yet, she had been screaming for Cato's help seconds before.

 "I'm assuming a brain hemorrhage," she mumbles back, not meeting anyone's eyes.

 "You're correct. Well, partly. You obviously know your skull is not crushed, but because of those memories and signals sent across your brain, it thinks the skull is. As a result, you will experience very debilitating migraines as a result of the increased pressure inside your head, as I'm sure you already have. I will provide the necessary pain medication, but the full effects of the bio-fiber will probably last for a couple more months until the brain can fully re-route itself."

 At least now Clove knows why her head was hurting so badly yesterday, though the prospect of lying in bed incapacitated for the next few months does not sit well with her.

 "And Cato," the doctor continues, "this means something totally different for you. Your injuries in the arena were far more serious than Clove's. At times, you'll probably have to be placed on morphling to subdue you."

 Clove turns to Cato, wanting to question him though she knows she probably shouldn't. He clammed up when she found out he died; asking him how that happened would likely produce fewer results.

 "Yeah, that's putting it a little lightly. Though I'm glad to know why I didn't get any sleep last night," her partner replies sarcastically, sees his fingers clench down around his knees. What happened to him? "One more question Doc, why? Where are we and why are we here?"

 Docere shakes his head sadly. "That is one facet I can't tell you everything about just yet. We call this place District Zero; it was created shortly before the beginning of the 74th Hunger Games. Snow...had a plan for you all, but I don't know if still plans to see it through. Do know that your group of tributes are the only ones that we ever hooked up to the simulator and probably will be the only ones."

 Clove notices Cato's jaw clenching next to her, and knows it's not a good sign. That was not the answer he was looking for. "Is that all you can tell us about this place?"

 "Everybody else was scheduled to awake this morning shortly after nine o'clock," Docere explains, skirting around Cato's question. "My assistants will be standing post to do damage control; I'm sure most of you will have issues with each other, but you have to remember all these issues are imaginary and just simulated conflicts. You're protected here. Trust me, you don't want to be out in the real world just yet after what everyone's seen you do. You were not a likable bunch from the start."

 Cato moves to leave, angry, and Clove rises to follow him. The majority of her questions have been answered, and although Snow's plan eats away at her, she knows she's not going to get any more out of the good doctor today.

 "One last thing, you two. The other tributes will be just as confused and disoriented as you were. It might be best if you're not the first people they see, so stay inside today."

 Cato nods stiffly, stalking out of the room and down the hallway. Clove glances back once to see Docere standing awkwardly behind his desk, empty hand still outstretched. She rushes to follow Cato back outside, shaking to get the image out of her head. His parting words do not resonate with her, however, until they're just outside the front doors of the clinic.

 A large, hulking man stands at the top of the hill leading towards the houses and from this distance, Clove can see his fingers curl into a fist and his nostrils flare in outrage.

 Thresh would definitely be the last person that wants to see them.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Clove is not prepared for the immediate anger. It courses through her chest, white-hot, and leaves her shaking. Docere's words are lost on her now. Thresh has his eyes set on Cato, though. Every cell in her body screams rage, and a thousand possible scenarios of revenge flit through her head. This _simpleton_ is responsible for her death; she deserved better.

 

Cato falls back into a defensive stance as they both see Thresh ever-so-lightly lead with his chest and come barreling towards them. The impact of their bodies emits a blunt, thudding sound as Thresh tackles Cato around the waist. Though matched in size, the momentum causes Cato to lose his footing, and they both crash to the ground locked together, fists flying.

 

"Stay back!" Cato yells at her, halting her from where she's about to stomp in Thresh's head with her boot. Clove's vision bleeds red at his words; this was her fight and she wasn't about to be told to stay out of the way!

 

Thresh notices his opening and delivers a sharp hook of his own. Cato's lip splits like an overripe peach. He spits, spraying Thresh's bare chest with blood which only serves to make the other man angrier. Clove lurches forward, instinct and rage driving her, as she witnesses Thresh's hands wrap around Cato's neck. She grapples with Thresh's back, nails finding purchase in his skin. He curses gruffly and swings her off. Cato claws upward, face contorting as the air is robbed from his body. Clove has no weapons. Thresh is easily over twice her size. Knocking him off Cato by sheer force is out of the question. She does the only thing that comes to mind; she hits him.

 

Her knuckles meet the soft area of his temple and Thresh grunts angrily, whipping his head around to look at her. There's a trickle of blood sliding down from his hairline, and his golden eyes flash as he frees a hand and grabs her by the back of the neck, slamming her face into the dirt beside Cato. Clove rises back up as far as Thresh's hold will allow her, spitting venom and fire. She notices Cato's eyes are watering at this point and any minute he will either black out from lack of oxygen or Thresh will succeed in crushing his windpipe.

 

Thresh moves his hold from the back of her neck to her long hair, twisting and pulling the strands in his meaty grasp to hold her still. She howls and kicks out with her feet, just barely able to graze Thresh's ribs. A feeling passes through Clove and it's foreign and unwanted: helplessness. Cato is no longer struggling as he was moments before, hands wrapped feebly around Thresh's wrists in the hopes of loosening the man's grip.

 

"Thresh! Stop now!"

 

The young voice rings out in the mountain air, at once powerful and demanding. Something snaps inside of Thresh and from her angle, Clove can just barely make out shame in his eyes. He releases her hair and Cato at the same time.

 

Rue stands above him, tugging him to his feet. Tears streak down her dark cheeks as she pulls on his arm to put distance between them. When her eyes meet Clove's, she is able to see fear in them. Rue could have let Thresh kill Cato, but she stopped him and that baffles Clove more than anything else she's learned today. The odds of her survival in the arena were slim to none; she should have been glad to see revenge.

 

Quickly, Rue rushes Thresh up the hill towards the houses and it's then that Clove sees the rest of the tributes have gathered around, watching the spectacle. Her eyes sweep over the familiar faces of her victims, muscle memory reminding her of how easy it had been to throw a knife into their bodies. Marvel and Glimmer are at the fore-front, shock painted on their faces.

 

Beside her, Cato sits up coughing raggedly. Dark red fingerprints adorn his neck and he rubs at them harshly. Clove wants to ask if he's okay, but adding insult to injury doesn't seem the best route of action right now. He's silent as he pushes himself to his feet and begins walking away from her.

 

Glimmer approaches them, but Clove stubbornly walks past her; the last position she wants to be in is having to explain to her what's happened to all of them. The rest of the tributes are not Clove's responsibility, and she feels a swell of anger when Cato stops to humor her. How can he stand her giant doe eyes right now when Thresh had nearly killed him a few moments ago?

 

Clove slams the front door to their shared quarters with a little more force than what is probably necessary, but she needs to make a point even if she can't find the words at the moment. The sitting room is too pristine for her roiling thoughts, so she snatches the cushions from the couch and pillows them underneath her on the floor.

 

Thresh had held her immobile with just one hand to the back of her head regardless of Clove's attempts to free herself. Yes, he is as strong as they come, and it isn't the first time he has manhandled her, but it still leaves her with a sour, white-hot feeling in her gut. Cato was overpowered, and she had been forced to watch as Thresh choked the life out of his eyes. Her feeling of weakness bothers her much more than Clove really wants to admit to herself. The door slams again behind her, and she flinches despite herself. Her nerves are still shot.

 

"I have to say that's not quite how I pictured our reunion to be," Cato quips, moving around her to sit on the cushion-less couch. "What are you doing down there?"

 

Clove doesn't answer him, instead standing and chucking the cushions beside him. "Why does Thresh want you dead?" she blurts out. She had imagined the shock of being alive would have zapped the rest of the Tributes of their aggression. Angry, yes. Blood-thirsty, no.

"Probably because I killed him first," he replies, stretching his long body out on the sofa.

 

"Oh, I thought Cat Piss took him out," Clove says dumbly. Cato is Thresh's only real competition, but admitting to herself that Cato killed him would also mean admitting that Cato probably killed him out of retaliation. For her. As much as her district partner wants to believe they are allies, they still have absolutely no emotional baggage between them. They are barely partners, much less friends. Besides that, Cato and chivalry never really mixed.

 

He gingerly prods at the mottled bruises that are just beginning to show on his neck, and a wave of embarrassment for him runs through Clove. Seeing Cato capable of injury is a lot like how it was to see her father cry for the first time. Blood still gathers on his lower lip. She takes her leave of the room without explanation as quickly as she can and locks herself in her bathroom.

 

It seems a good of a time as any to finally take that bath, so Clove strips herself out of the borrowed clothes. While this bathroom lacks the high-tech sprays and foams the Capitol has, there's a various assortment of bath oils and soaps in a basket by the tub. Sinking beneath the water offers her the comfort she's been seeking all day as if all the answers will be found underneath the steam rising up from the tub. When her lungs begin to ache she emerges a little clear-headed than before.

 

First on her agenda is to question Snow ruthlessly. Find out why he is keeping them all here, and what he plans on doing with them. Who knew when he was going to show his face again though? He would likely want to see Clove even less. Tearing at someone's throat with your teeth doesn't exactly put you in their good graces, but Snow was never in hers.

 

A cloud of steam billows out into the cool bedroom when she unlocks the door, and she wraps the towel tighter around her to trap more of the heat. There is a glass of water and a couple of round, white pills lying on the bedside table. Clove's eyes shoot to the door, suspicious. She hadn't noticed them when she came in, but it's unlikely Cato would have brought her painkillers in to her. Maybe one of the doctor's assistants brought them by instead.

 

Clove swallows them as she dresses, slipping out of the bedroom. Cato is still spread out over the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, and chest rising with every inhale. It's safer not to disturb him now that he has finally fallen asleep. She's not expecting the kitchen to be as well-stocked as it is. How long have they been expecting them? How long have they been a part of Snow's "plan"?

 

She's halfway through a peanut butter sandwich when she hears loud yelling outside. _The rest must have finally clued in,_ she muses, making her way to the front door. Clove can see they are gathered in a semi-circle in front of her house, arguing. None of them seem to notice her as she walks out toward them.

 

“I think we should all say what we remember last; I think that will help us remember everything,” the girl from District Six recommends, her ridiculous blonde pigtails bouncing with her excitement.

 

“It obviously doesn't matter what we remember last since we can't be sure what we can remember is the truth,” Marvel shoots back. For some reason, she is thankful that Cato has left him in the dark.

 

Pigtail girl looks as if she wants to argue with him, but Clove steps into the middle of the circle before the girl can open her dumb mouth. To her delight, the majority of the group shrinks back from her presence.

 

"I am increasingly surprised at how _dumb_ you all are." Glimmer's mouth drops open dramatically, and Clove really has to wonder how someone so proper and girly turned into a Career.

 

"Give us one good reason why we shouldn't kill you right now?" District Six's male threatens bravely, stepping towards her.

 

Clove snarls, fingering the hilt of the knife she had stuck in her pants from the kitchen. "Just one? The obvious being that I know more ways to kill you in under five seconds than your underwhelming brain can comprehend. I'm also the only one that knows where we are, but if you still think you have a shot, please try me."

 

The boy looks flabbergasted, caught between wanting to back up the tough exterior he is putting on for show and backing down from a fight he knows he can't win. Thresh solves his dilemma for him by stepping in front of the kid and glaring down his nose at her.

 

"There will be no more fighting," he asserts lowly. Clove doesn't like him taking charge of the group like this and acting as if he'll protect them from Cato and her. However, the tone of his voice doesn't leave much in the way of an argument right now. Not after what he did to Cato.

 

"Fine. Control your lambs, and I'll try not to slaughter you all out of pity."

 

Thresh's reply is interrupted by the sudden, silent arrival of a hovercraft in a circle of clear space in front of the houses. Its monstrous body appears out of thin air and sets down just as quietly. She notices Docere wandering out from the clinic as if he somehow heard its descent, curious. The steel ramp unfolds from the side of the craft, fluidly unraveling towards the ground.

 

Docere reaches her side as President Snow emerges from within, surrounded by his guards. The doctor visibly blanches next to Clove and turns as white as the old president's hair. At once, his disposition on the first day becomes clear to her. He had never been frightened of Cato and her; it is Snow who terrifies him.

 

The rest of the group is wide-eyed, staring up at Snow with hope in their eyes. He smiles rougishly, sweeping a liver-spotted hand over his platinum hair.

 

“Children, Tributes, I'm glad to see you all well and awake. I am certain you have a lot of questions for me, and in time, I will answer them all.”

 

The raucous that erupts seems to overwhelm Snow, because the smile drops from his face in a matter of moments.

 

“You are all a unit, a single undivided entity. As a unit, you will work together and collaborate and achieve the goals that are set before yo--”.

 

“How are we alive?!” one of the district females interrupts, and the group explodes again.

 

“Enough!” Snow commands, patience a thing of the past. “I have saved you all from extinction because you have a purpose. You did not win the 74th Hunger Games, because I have set aside a task for you that means more. Do not question your existence anymore and turn your attention to what you are now meant to do.”

 

She catches Docere's eye. Is this the same task that he wouldn't tell Cato and her about? The old man stares back with the wide eyes of startled prey, and pushes backwards through the crowd. Clove sneers at his retreating back. _Coward._

 

“Over the next few weeks, everyone will be required to attend training sessions. Those caught skipping will be punished accordingly. In six weeks time, training will conclude and all of you will be transported east to begin your next assignment. Think of this not as a punishment but as a second chance. Training begins tomorrow; do not be late.”

 

Snow pivots and stalks back towards the still-running hovercraft, clearly done speaking with the plebian masses. Clove slips back to the house without anyone noticing; Cato needs to know these new developments. He would understand as much as she did that Careers are trained for the Games, but a training of a mixed group can only mean one thing.

 

They are to be Snow's personal army. An army against what, though?

 

Clove's just shut the door behind her when she's struck by a horrible keening noise coming from down the hall. The sound is muffled, but she can still discern that it's Cato. She makes her way to his bedroom with deliberation, knife gripped tight in her palm; self-perseverance tells her to take caution to what she may find. He lies face-down on his bed, face completely smothered into his pillow, and he is screaming. The severe rigidity of his body is the only thing that keeps Clove from backing out of the room.

 

She hesitates briefly as he groans in pain, the sound tortured and coming from deep within his chest. When Clove moves to touch his shoulder, he flinches violently away from her. The angle of his body looks weird like the tension in his muscles is not being controlled by him. Her fingers skim his shoulder blade, and she jerks her hand back, eyes widening in horror. Sweat has soaked through his thin t-shirt, but more pressing is every single one of his muscles is locked tight and spasming violently under her hand.

 

Quickly, Clove rolls him over onto his back. The pillow and his chin are covered in blood where he's tore into his cheek with his teeth against his will. Somehow, he's still conscious through this. His eyes fall to hers, wild and filled with what can only be agony. Not knowing what else to do, she climbs onto the bed next to him and pulls his head into her lap cautiously. He yells out through his clenched teeth, and a fresh sheen of sweat erupts on his forehead. Clove reluctantly smoothes back his sodden blonde bangs, out of her element.

 

Docere is right; Cato's ghost pains are a lot worse than hers. Pills spill out over the comforter next to them, where he presumably tried to get them open before he succumbed to the total lock-down of his body. She grabs one and jabs it between his teeth, using a finger to slide it towards the back of his tongue.

 

"If you bite me, I swear to god I'll rip you apart," she threatens him, voice strained. He gags around her finger. "The same goes for throwing up on me." She assists him with swallowing by massaging his throat with her fingers, watching the pill make its way slowly down. The ice blue of his eyes lock with hers in that moment, and Clove feels like she's trapped in his vulnerability. His pain embarrasses her, and she looks around the room instead. Cato is never supposed to be like this, and she is certainly never supposed to witness it.

 

Slowly, like a sleeping limb waking up, his body relaxes bit by bit as the medication starts to take effect. His jaw loosens underneath her hands, and she pulls them back sharply, afraid that he'll think she was coddling him. He swallows thickly, a small smirk spreading across his lips.

 

"I'd like to see that," Cato murmurs. He continues to try and hold her gaze, but at this point Clove is stubbornly looking everywhere but.

 

"How did you die, Cato? If I'm going to be the one to hold your hand through this shit, I need to know what I'm up against." She doesn't add that she hopes she never has to be in this same spot again. When she glances back at his face finally, his eyes are unfocused and clouded.

 

"The Capitol created these wolf-hybrid muttations and made them look like everyone. District 12 and I were stranded on top of the Cornucopia when they knocked me off." His eyes come to rest on hers again. "Your mutt attacked me right here," he continued, laying a hand on his chest directly over his heart. "Katniss shot an arrow into my head to put me out of my misery."

 

Clove balks at his admission, sliding out from under him. Before she can move off the bed, he encircles her wrist with his strong hand. "Don't go." Clove pulls at his grip, realizing he's not going to let her free.

 

"Stay." His words are slurred now, the drugs finally sedating him.

 

"I don't want to." He lays still, looking up at her, processing her response. She's thankful for the medication as his drowsy blinking hides the eyes that are too raw, too unguarded, and too searching.

 

“I have seen you capable of such horrible things, Clove. What you did for me is the first selfless thing I've ever seen you do. Just stay.”

 

She sits on the floor next to the bed petulantly. His face is void of expression, but he continues to stare at her from underneath his lashes. It's invasive and unnerving, and Clove finds herself shifting uncomfortably against her better judgment. "Will you stop looking at me like that?!" He acquiesces, but not before tightening his grip around her hand. She pulls again, ineffectually,  at the restraint, exhaustion and annoyance wearing her down.

 

Today, she's had to assist Cato more than once in ways that she's not okay with. Careers and vulnerability do not mix. Clove can't place her finger on it, but something about Cato has shifted. It shown in his eyes earlier, unrecognizable. She still finds herself nodding off next to him, forehead heavy against the side of the mattress.

 

Through it all, Cato refuses to let go of her wrist.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nursing school is the absolute worse when it comes to doling out free time. Sorry 'bout it.

"Do you think they've figured out his agenda?" Cato says this around an apple he's been munching on since they left the house. A little of the juice dribbles from the corner of his mouth and down his chin, and Clove has to glance away, annoyed. She can't look him in the eye yet after last night, and every little thing he does gets under her skin. He's expecting an answer out of her though.

 

"I doubt it. Maybe Marvel and Glimmer; only Careers would be able to catch on to something like that."

“So Snow needs an army, but where's the war?” he fires back, an amused grin set upon his face. If anything, Cato's been absolutely delighted at the recent turn of events ever since Clove told him earlier this morning what Snow had said. This is only after he spooked her by standing above her until she woke up; she honestly couldn't be blamed for the superficial cuts to his chest courtesy of the knife she still had tucked beneath her shirt.

 

The morning sunlight probes at the sensitive spaces behind Clove's eyes, pain a distant flare at the tip of her spine. She skipped her medication dose this morning just to see how long she could go without it. Clove refuses to feel weak because of something as simple as a little migraine, especially considering what she went through last night with Cato. If they are going to be training today, she needs to be at the top of her game and head clear from the heavy fog of sedative.

 

Overnight, Docere's staff had erected a military-style obstacle course in the empty space between their temporary houses. It is paltry and spare; nothing here will be of any help to the weaker, skinnier Tributes. Nevertheless, Clove leans against one of the inclined wooden walls and waits for instruction. Training is base. Training is something she signs up for without question even if she is uncomfortable playing as Snow's pawn this go around. She could still train and forget.

 

Thresh and Rue are perched upon the vaults across from her. He sits with his chin resting on his interlocked fingers, eyes tracing Cato's movements across the yard. Rue, however, stares her down non-threateningly, sharp eyes seem to be digesting her reaction to Thresh. Luckily for Clove, she's had enough experience perfecting a poker face.

 

The rest of the Tributes eventually stumble out groggily to join them. Clove can tell quickly that unless a life or death situation is on their hands many of them are not morning risers. Marvel swaggers to the forefront, sizing up the faces near him as he passes each Tribute.

"Okay, listen up, people! We're going to hit the ground running this morning. Training will be far more intense than what any of you have experienced so far. You heard Snow, we're all meant for a higher purpose here, which means that we all need to be at the best of our abilities. So, ten laps around the perimeter of the houses!"

 

Marvel sets off at a dead sprint. For a moment, it looks like no one is going to follow, but the Tributes reluctantly start jogging, grumbling under their breath the whole time. Cato and she bring up the rear. One look and Clove can tell he's unhappy that Marvel has appointed himself leader this morning. She could really care less about who's in charge of this crapshoot; if Snow thinks he can transform these weakling children into toy soldiers, he's going to be sorely disappointed.

 

The pace is too slow for what she's normally used to; Clove has always been an excellent runner over long distances. Before long, Marvel is panting too loudly next to her, and she gains the forefront with ease. Her own thoughts and the pounding headache at her temples spur Clove to veer off into a thicket of tall pines. The group crashes through the trees behind her and without knowing it, she's opted to lead. Clove tries to pick the most congested paths to pose as more of a challenge; fallen logs and low-hanging branches will only force them to be more aware of their surroundings. There is no such thing as proper training without distractions.

 

Sweat pools heavily between her breasts and the back of her neck before she finally slows to a stop to give everyone a chance to catch their breath. Silence reaches her ears. Clove turns slowly, fully expecting to be alone because everyone had given up two miles back. Instead, they're all grouped within the trees, watching her intently. The silence in itself is unnerving, but they all act as if they're waiting on her to dictate their next move. That is especially odd.

 

"Why the hell is everyone still standing around? Move!"

 

They scatter quickly, jogging back the way they've come. Cato is the only one left still leaning against a tree, arms crossed and his infamous all-knowing smirk plastered upon his face. Clove's skull is throbbing far too much to put up with his ostentatious attitude; his bad habit of always acting like he knows something she doesn't really puts her on edge sometimes.

 

"Well, well, well. Look at you, little Clove. Slaughtering them one day and shepherding them the next. If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I would never believe it." His tone is mocking, and it only sets her teeth to a slow grind.

 

"Fuck off. I was just running, and everyone followed me," Clove pants. A run like that normally wouldn't take so much out of her, but her decision to forgo her painkiller this morning is really coming back to bite her in the ass.

 

Cato steps close suddenly, laying a palm against the side of her head. "You're hurting."

 

"Jeez, is it that obvious?!" She dodges and swats at his hand. Clove is not as comfortable as Cato about sharing her _condition._ "Just don't touch me; you'll make it worse."

He rolls his eyes skeptically, but she doesn't give him the luxury of another retort and begins walking back towards the camp. He laughs, slightly jogging to keep pace with her. "I think you should do it. Appoint yourself General of Snow's child-army."

 

"And I think you should shut your mouth," she interrupts, casting him a malicious glare from the corner of her eyes.

 

He pivots to face her, deftly walking backwards without once stumbling. Show-off. "No, I'm serious. They're all terrified of you so gaining their compliance would be incredibly simple. You're pretty bossy, too. You know as well as I that Marvel has no clue what he's doing, and District Two has always had more reconnaissance experience."

 

"I don't want the responsibility of training a bunch of losers so will you just drop it!"

 

Cato holds his hands up in a plea for surrender. "Okay, sorry I mentioned it."

 

They fall into silence, the sounds of their boots crunching against the earth their only company. The double entendre of her statement plagues Clove's mind the rest of the trip back. They were all losers not just in the sense of an insult, but also in the fact that they couldn't even have the decency and honor of a real death in the arena. _She_ would rather be dead right now. Somewhere along the way in her childhood, her existence took a back burner to her personal pride and ego.

 

Once they reach the edge of the tree line, it becomes obvious that Marvel is the furthest from the right choice. He has the tributes performing piss-poor calisthenics in the middle of the clearing; the back row isn't even bothering themselves to participate. The complete hopelessness of the situation drains Clove of energy. Whether or not she despised them, they are slated to be fighting beside her in whatever obstacles Snow thrusts upon them. Like hell she is going to let them slow her up.

 

"Listen closely Cato, because this will be the one and only time I say this. You were right on this one," she mumbles out the side of her mouth. Cato scoffs pretentiously, but Clove can see the beginning of a pleased smirk spread across his lips.

 

"Tomorrow. We'll start this tomorrow."

 

\-----

 

Docere's office is dark as she approaches, but by the harsh light of the hallway she can just make out the profile of his face through the window. Clove props open the door with her body somewhat hesitant to enter.

 

"Why do you have the lights off?"

 

His head jerks sharply in her direction, startled. "Oh Clove! I didn't see you pass by." He touches the bridge of his glasses as if out of habit. The light from the hall casts across the top of his desk but leaves him still bathed in darkness. "You're here to discuss training the Tributes."

 

Now it's her turn to be startled. "What-- how did you know?"

 

"The profile I have on you has four distinctive personality traits. Did you know potential leadership skills is one of them?" He chuckles in the dark. "Does that surprise you? If it wasn't you, I would have put my bets on Cato or Thresh coming to me next."

 

Clove mulls over these choices in her head. Cato would be a suitable partner at times, but she could not stand Thresh by her side now would she allow him to dictate what she did. She'd rather see herself dead at the bottom of a lake than take orders from him. "For the record, I think this is a terrible idea. These children are weak and air-headed."

 

Docere studies her for a long moment before pulling open the desk drawer near him. He withdraws a small capsule identical to the ones in my bedroom and lies it on the edge of the table. "You don't have to take it, but it'd make me feel better if you did. I can see you trembling from here."

 

She hadn't noticed. She was trying so hard to focus on his voice and not the sharp slice of pain at her temples. Clove steps forward and swallows the pill without hesitation, tipping her head back to ease it down without the aid of water to accompany it. The analgesic effect swims through her bloodstream almost immediately, and she sags against the door in relief. Her thoughts wander to Cato in that moment, whether he's had another attack since last night and hasn't mentioned it. She's glad that she's absent to witness it for a second time.

 

"My best advice to you," Docere continues in his soft voice, "is to train them like you were trained. It's no secret that some of the best child prodigies have emerged from the Career districts. You are young, but you are fierce, Clove. Teach them to be fierce."

 

His eyes drift shut and he slumps back in his chair and she knows she's being dismissed. Although Docere is as cryptic as they come, Clove understands what he's said and lets the door close behind her.

 

As she walks back towards the house Cato and her currently share, she lets the words play through her head. It's true that Career training is physically and psychologically at the top of its game; it's one of the reasons District One and Two win the Hunger Games consistently. However, that is not the case this time and Clove is afraid that it is the result of a personal fault and not poor planning.

 

How is she to train a group of teenagers to fight and win if she has already failed herself?

 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing that has a copyright attached.

The house is quiet tonight as Clove lies in the dark nursing a headache. Her own stash of pills, taken two hours prior, are only beginning to take some of the edge off, leaving the pressure behind her eyes just short of excruciating. Cato had gotten up some time earlier and is wandering the small home, opening cabinets and rifling through closets. The hallway outside her door creaks suddenly, but she has no way of knowing if he is still directly outside. Clove thinks briefly of telling him to come in if he had something so important to tell her, but honestly, she doesn't feel up to entertaining his antics. If Cato can't fall asleep, well, that's his problem.

Ignoring his clattering, Clove begins devising the routines she will use to whip the other Tributes into some semblance of order. She knows the training well enough, but still lacks any real desire to lead them. Furthermore, most of them hate her for killing them in the arena even despite knowing the truth. She needed someone to help that they will be agreeable to take orders from.

Cato, while an obvious partnership is beneficial given their mutual skill sets, will go over with everyone as well as she. District 1, maybe? No. It will be a cold day in Hell before she takes orders from Marvel and she can only imagine the thought of Glimmer in command with her perfectly polished hair and lip gloss.

Clove exhales loudly into the quiet room.

All this thinking is giving her a worse headache.

During her Career training, when her instructors weren't breaking them to the point of exhaustion, information on the other Districts was passed down to them. What interested Clove most were the environmental advantages one District has over the other. For instance, those from District 7 possess amazing physical strength due to their trade in lumber, and those in District 3, although destitute, are the most resourceful and technologically advanced. Her best plan for personalizing the training for the Tributes is to fashion it to their unique skills, just how their mentors should have trained them prior to entering the arena.

Later, after the sun finally sets, Clove emerges from her bedroom to explore. She expects to find Cato somewhere in the house, but it's too silent. He slams doors and bumps into walls enough to announce his presence. The eerie calm that has settled over everything lets her know he's not inside.

She jogs out the front door wanting to feel the burn in her calves. It's time to scan the perimeter; she's stayed two(? ) nights too long in this place without exploring where they're at. Past the squat buildings, the plains around them stretch out almost never-ending into the moonlit horizon. Wildflowers grow in dense bunches in a multitude of colors and the smell of juniper hangs heavy on the breeze. It is too dark out to decipher if the large shadow on the horizon are mountains or a town, but Clove feels in her gut that she is closer to her district than she realizes. The grass is grown up on either side of her legs and the vast openness of the plains engulfs her in a heady weight.

She sinks down onto the wispy grass, thankful for her small stature because if someone were to look out past where the lamplights cast their shadow, they would still be unable to see her sitting there. It is calm, and for the first time in a long time, Clove feels at peace. The turmoil she went through preparing for the Games is absent for once, the raw aching anxiety that left her twitching in her sleep.

Rue is the answer.

The young girl emboldened hope everywhere she went, and strangers loved her without knowing from where or why. It went against everything in Clove's dominant personality, but quiet Rue would be the perfect partner for their ragtag group. She would be the one to tailor the training, and Rue would be the glue that held everyone together.

Clove didn't want to be the glue.

She didn't even want to be the less semi-permanent tape that held everyone together.

After this was all said and done, if she survived, she wanted to quietly escape back to her district to a small cabin in the middle of the wilderness. Away from the Games. Away from Snow. Away from the possibilities of ever having to mentor another child. She loved training. She loved the grit and the sweat of a good hard workout. She adored her knives. She could do without the rest of it.

Soon, the grass beneath her turns soggy with dew and she stands, brushing off the back of her pants with one hand. A fox yips in the distance, and Clove staggers back towards the lit courtyard, struggling to hold onto the peace inside her. It feels strange to be this lost in the world. Before, she had purpose in her training. She was going to be the winning Tribute of the 74th Hunger Games. But that was before. Before she woke up in this alternate-universe-turned-real-time and learned it was all for show.

She stumbles back into the small home she temporarily shares with Cato. Her pain medication is making her drowsy finally -- a drunk, heavy feeling settling down over her limbs. She kicks off her boots and clothes at the foot of the bed before crawling under the thick blankets that faintly smell of the hay you would find in a barn. Clove's last thought before succumbing to sleep is not a reassuring one. How is she going to convince them to trust her?

* * *

 

"I think I should go with you. Do this as a team."

Clove deadpans a look that's far from humored at Cato.

She has barely finished telling him the plan. "I think that's a terrible idea, really. Look, I'll bring it up, I promise, but I think I should go over there alone today."

Cato frowns. "What if something happens?"

Clove shoots him a wry smirk in return, deftly lifting the edge of her tunic to display the sharp daggers she has tucked into the waistband of her pants. The one and only armory in their compound is poorly guarded and almost too easy to break into. Cato almost looks proud of her for a moment.

* * *

 

Later that morning, Clove feels almost jittery as she knocks on the front door of Rue's and Thresh's home. As expected, Thresh answers and is immediately suspicious. He darts his eyes back and forth over her head to check for what he feels must be an ambush, stone-faced and nostrils flared. Clove has never been this close enough in a non-threatening manner to notice the mild yellowing of the whites of his eyes or that overall, Thresh is kind of handsome.

When he's not killing her, of course.

"Can we talk?" She tries polite on for size, even though the soft-spoken tone leaves an unfamiliar taste in her mouth.

"What makes you think we would want to talk with you?"

She bristles at first, but smiles through clenched teeth. Progress. However how slow. "It'll be worth your time. Now, please, can I come in?"

Thresh's upper lip curls in disgust at her, but he pushes the door open wider so she can pass underneath his arm. The layout on the inside is an exact replica of her own humble settings. This strikes Clove as odd since the Capitol has always been known for flair and excess. Rue is sitting at the small table in the kitchen, painstakingly and meticulously weaving wildflowers through the thick braids she's fashioned from her hair. Her doe eyes track Clove's every move as she pulls out a chair opposite Rue. The younger girl is well-mannered enough to lie down the wildflowers and fold her hands demurely on top of the table.

Thresh, however, bangs around the small kitchen clearly annoyed by Clove's intrusion into their safe space.

"I'll make this quick. You two are intelligent, right? I'm sure you've figured out Snow's true plan already."

Rue nods imperceptibly.

"We don't know who our target is, but I do know the rest of those kids aren't ready."

"We don't know our target, but we know our enemy," Rue agrees.

"Snow must pay for everything he's done. He has to die," Thresh adds, gripping the counter behind him with white knuckles.

"I agree with you, but we have a better chance if all of us did this together. We have no hope of killing Snow on our own."

"Only he must die," Rue begs quietly.

Clove whips her head back around to face Rue. "I can't promise that." And she couldn't. Clove is angrier than she ever remembers being; there are going to be many victims in her war-path.

"I can keep you out of the fighting," Clove rushes, seeing the apprehension on the young girl's face. She didn't want to lose their only hope. "If you'll help me rally and strategize, I promise I'll find a way to keep you out of harm's way."

"We all deserve to live, "Rue replies, meekly.

Clove couldn't honestly say she agreed with that sentiment, but it was an opinion best kept to herself at the moment.

"I'll help you. We'll help you," Rue caves finally, glancing up at Thresh. The black boy makes a face that suggests this is the worst idea in the history of ever, but Clove knows he will comply with Rue's any and every wish. Rue picks at a yellow flowerbud before her. "You'll talk to the Careers, won't you? I can get the rest of the Tributes on the same page, but I'm not the only one not wanting to deal with them."

Clove nods in affirmation. "They'll act right, or they'll answer to me personally."

Thresh huffs angrily all of a sudden and throws his hands up in the air. "How do we know this isn't some trick for you Careers to kill us all and escape on your own?!"

"You don't," Clove shrugs innocently.

Honestly, that hasn't crossed her mind, but she files it away in the back of her brain as a plausible possibility if things went South. "I've never given either of you reason to trust me, but I want to go home as much as you do, and I can't do that without your help."

Thresh only sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, but Clove takes that as a positive sign.

As she is leaving District 11's house, Clove spots Docere across the courtyard. He is instructing Snow's staff on where to erect the wooden dummies and training equipment Snow has provided for the Tributes. He waves her over when he sees her.

"I take it you're busy making amends this morning," he teases, mopping his glistening brow with a soft cloth.

"You could say that." Clove has grown to respect the good doctor in her own little way. "Two down. Eighteen more to go," she sighs. "I think I'll let Cato take over from here." He is far more charismatic than she. Blood-thirsty and insane, yes, but charming.

At some point in the last few days, Clove began seeing Cato as more level-headed and grounded than her. She really was losing touch with reality. "How long do we have to train?"

Docere raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Don't know. He really doesn't tell me a whole lot, you know."

"Funny. I would have pegged you as his right hand man."

Docere smirks and turns his attention back to the workers. "Your brain works in funny ways, Clove."

Clove walks away then, pondering the cryptic aura surrounding the doctor. Snow is not the type of person to put someone in charge of his master plan without some type of knowledge of what was going on. She couldn't decide if Docere was truly left in the dark or just playing a long game. Was he also faking his intense fear of Snow?

She is stopped in her tracks as she enters the home to the sight of Cato doing push-ups, shirtless, in the middle of the living room floor. Sweat glistens across his broad, freckled back, the muscles of his shoulder blades rippling beneath his skin with every downward movement. Clove flushes slightly (then flushes again for flushing in the first place), caught off-guard. She balks inwardly at her own heated response. She's seen Cato work out in various states of undress a hundred times before now; this time is no different than the last twenty.

She frowns, more to herself than anything, and clears her throat loudly.

"I already heard you come in. My goal is 250 so I'm not stopping. Just talk," Cato grunts out.

"250 is a weak goal, just saying. Anyway, I spoke with Rue and Thresh. They're on board."

This news is enough to bring Cato to a complete halt. He frowns and scrunches his face as if he's smelled something bad. "That was almost a little too easy, right?"

Clove shrugs and gingerly steps between his splayed legs in order to plop down on the couch next to him. "I'm trying to get in the habit of not questioning things when they go right for once. Rue said she and Thresh would get everyone else on board. We're supposed to talk to the Careers, though."

"Oh great," he replies sarcastically, resuming his push-ups. "Might as well kill them both off now. Marvel would never take orders from either of us; he's far too proud for that, you know."

Clove taps her lip thoughtfully with her index nail. Killing the Careers sounds like Christmas come early, but unfortunately they are needed. No use cutting down their numbers this early on.

She watches Cato do another set of push-ups -- watches the smooth rippling of his abs and arms flexing with every movement. Disgusted, she pushes against his side with her boot and knocks him over. He yelps and glares back up at her. She only smiles in return.

No point in punching another spot on his Macho-Man card; they had work to do.


	6. Chapter 6

confessional hymns for the devil, himself

Disclaimer: I own nothing that has a copyright attached.

Chapter Six

* * *

 

If Clove could snap a picture of Glimmer's face at this moment and preserve it in a time capsule, she would. The room has fallen into an awkward silence after Cato breaks the news to the two other Careers. That they aren't going to be in charge. That they aren't even going to be runners up to the runners up in charge.

"Well-well that's just... _asinine_!" Glimmer sputters, pretty face splotching red with anger and disbelief. Clove absently thinks about how long the other girl has been waiting to throw that fifty-cent word into casual conversation. She probably doesn't even know what it means.

"We just feel that you two are too explosive and impulsive," Cato calmly explains further.

Clove takes it back. The look on Marvel's face is even more hilarious.

"Me? Explosive? _Me_?" He says this with a very pointed look in Clove's direction.

"If we find a task for you that is better suited, we will. Just...leadership is not one of your innate abilities. Just take a look at the other afternoon; half the Tributes weren't even paying attention to you and the other half were outright disobeying you." Cato has both hands raised in a sign of submission. Though not as hotheaded as Cato, Marvel possesses a wicked temper at times, and it is wise to break the news to him standing at least fifteen feet away.

"So that's it then: Careers to the back of the line, as it were?" Marvel states, suddenly calm. He has a slight build, but even Clove locks her core to brace for a fight. "You and those degenerates from District 11 think you can do this, have at it. I would just watch your back if I were you when the time comes. We'll see who takes what side when shit gets heavy."

Marvel spins on his heel and stalks from their house, slamming the door behind him on the way out.

Glimmer pauses there for a moment, and Clove can almost physically hear the gears turning in her curly blonde head. "Yeah!" she shouts before following Marvel, opening and slamming the door emphatically.

Cato whistles loudly next to her. "Yikes! That could have gone so much differently."

She scoffs, busying herself with packing her knives inside her jacket and pants leg. "What response were you hoping for, exactly? I felt like that went just as I expected it would. They don't appreciate taking orders, never have, and now they especially won't when it's District 11 giving them."

"I meant you could have been mopping up quite a bit of blood after," he jokes, a twinkle in his mischievous eyes.

"What the fuck do I look like to you? A housewife?" Clove bristles. It's still hard to speak amicably with Cato, and he's pushing her too far too fast.

The smirk drops off his face in record time, and his eyes smolder at her response. "My, you're testy today. I wasn't trying to imply you were indebted to me or something."

Clove falters. She didn't expect his rebuttal; he typically backs off when she snaps at him. Unsure of what to say, she retreats to the kitchen to fix a bite to eat. It's quiet for a few moments more as she licks peanut butter off a spoon.

"You're the only one who can stand as my equal," she hears from the other room. It isn't a whisper exactly, but Clove knows it also isn't meant to start another conversation. Cato is just simply stating fact. She hears his heavy footsteps down the hall and the soft squeak of his bedroom door as he closes it behind him.

* * *

 

The next few days are a blur of activity for everyone. Clove tries to hold onto whatever sliver of optimism she felt in the beginning when she first asked for Rue and Thresh's help, but the other Tributes' abilities are downright abysmal by her standards. You would assume that once the Districts caught wind that the Hunger Games were to be an annual event, they would initiate some sort of training program for the youth so as not to put them at such a striking disadvantage. That's how the children in the Career districts are taught.

She has to give it to him; Thresh is excellent at keeping morale up when several begin complaining after a few days of nonstop training. Her first instinct is to berate and yell, but he quickly steps in and works alongside them, pushing and encouraging the kids every step of the way. She finds herself catching his eye after one session and he, honest-to-god, tilts his mouth up in a half-smile and nods his head imperceptibly.

Given their history, Clove is utterly surprised. The bitterness of her pseudo-death still stings sharp, but she finds herself ceding instruction to him when he steps forward happy to take a break. Many of the Tributes catch on quick, but she is not known for her patience even at the best of times.

Rue, for all her quietness, is overwhelmingly full of great ideas on what techniques will benefit whom and who are the lost causes. Even Marvel and Glimmer joins begrudgingly after spending the first day haughtily observing from the sidelines, as if training is somehow beneath them.

The most shocking, and she will not dare breathe this out loud, is Cato. His enthusiasm for leadership practically oozes from his pores and knocks her for a loop.

It is during a moment of this flabbergasted analysis that the sickly sweet smell of roses reaches her nostrils on the wind. Without notice, Snow has joined their training session and is standing calmly at the edge of the gravel and surveying the scene through slit eyes. One by one the Tributes notice his presence and stop what they are doing. Cato is the last one to realize and only clues in once he realizes the quiet that has descended over the group, coming to a quick halt from sparring practice and panting heavily.

"Good afternoon, Tributes. I have to say I am fairly impressed by what I've seen so far." He smiles a snake-like smirk and continues. "Unfortunately, I'm sorry to inform you that today's training and days hereafter are to be cut short."

A wave of confusion ripples through the crowd. Even Clove feels herself tense with anticipation. Why stop training so suddenly after they've just begun?

"I consider the Tributes standing before me my greatest asset in Panem's time of need. There is upset and turmoil amidst us. Terrorists have threatened our great nation and seek to destroy the peace of our way of life and our families. These evil individuals have camped out in the ruins of what was once District 13." Snow exhales loudly, frustration and discontent marring his features. "The Capitol's hovercrafts cannot safely land in the terrain to wipe out these malevolent forces. Ground troops are already heavily guarding and supporting the Districts for their safety."

Clove sees Cato shift uncomfortably. Like he, she understands where this particular speech is headed.

"The talented teenagers standing before me are our only resource left. I need everyone to begin the march on District 13. Since it is quite a journey, training will commence along the way." Snow pauses, looking out over the faces staring intently back at him. The smile on his face is obviously forced; they are his last resort and the prospect terrifies him as much as it does Clove.

"These rebels will want to kill you solely because you are affiliated with the Capitol," he continues. This statement finally sends some life through the crowd. A few begin to sob. Clove assumes these are the ones who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would not survive the Hunger Games let alone armed, dangerous and angry adults.

Snow quits talking, a frown settling on his lips and staying there. Clove scoffs under her breath at him, flashing Cato a look of disbelief. Was Snow really so oblivious to how untalented and pathetic the majority of these Tributes are? For Christ's sake, they were the _losers_ of the Hunger Games!

"You are to depart immediately at dusk tomorrow. Travel will only be allowed at night to conserve energy and supplies. That is all," Snow finishes monotonously.

Clove swears he ages another decade before her as he surveys the group one last time and stalks off towards the clinic. Docere meets him at the front entrance, trembling, yet invites him inside nevertheless. The Tributes loiter uselessly, processing the news Snow left them with.

Cato, ever the optimist these days, claps his hands together loudly after a moment of awkward silence. "Okay gang! Tomorrow will be spent obviously resting for beginning our hike, but that doesn't mean we can't finish what we've started today. Back to the grind people!" He picks up the padded wooden pole he had been sparring with previously and twirls it in his hands. "Any takers?"

Thresh sighs heavily, shaking his own head in barely-concealed amusement before bounding lithely to his feet. "I'll spar," he tells Cato, a competitive gleam twinkling in his eye.

Clove briefly wonders if they'll fight to Thresh's demise (clearly Cato is stronger, faster, and more capable). Instead, Cato surprises her by barking out a jovial laugh and tosses Thresh the other padded stick.

Clove's jaw metaphorically hits the ground. Since when did Cato do anything _jovially_ where Thresh was concerned?!

A dark bubble breathes low in Clove's gut. She was not ready to change her perception of Thresh. Yes, she might be able to work benignly with him, but respect and forgiveness of his transgressions is out of the question. A sting of betrayal pierces her with the realization that Cato could overlook Thresh bashing her skull in so easily.

The next hour passes and the Tributes pick up where they left off after much encouragement from Rue and Cato, alike. As each minute comes and goes, Clove feels more alienated, more alone, more _angry_. Cato moves from tribute to another and corrects their technique without spite or shaming, a smile lighting up his face the entire time.

Clove is unfortunately paired up with a shy, soft-spoken boy whose special talent appears to be absolutely nothing in particular, unless you can count cowering shamefully and repeatedly murmuring "sorry" for so much as breathing the wrong way. Clove, in her agitated state, can only take so much of his pitiful behavior. Finally, she snaps as he throws a knife and misses the log he is aiming for by a whole fifteen feet and mutters out one more blasted apology.

"Look here, you better shape the fuck up quick! The only thing you should be sorry for is squeezing your stupid, misshapen skull out from between your mother's thighs! If you don't stop whining, I'm going to give you something worth whining about," Clove screams, brandishing her knife in the boy's face. He shrinks back from her, terrified, and whimpers miserably. Just as Clove starts to feel satisfaction from witnessing the color drain from his face, Cato's large, sweaty torso steps directly in front of her and blocks her view.

"Hey, hey! Take it easy, Clove! He's learning so there's no need to yell at him like that."

Cato's level-headed tone only serves to piss her off even more. "If you don't get the hell out of my face, you'll be next! Where do you get off thinking you can tell me what to do, huh?" Clove lays her hands against his chest and pushes, hard.

Cato stumbles slightly and raises his hands, palms up in a show of submission to her anger. "Woah, no one is telling you what to do, Clove. Just that there is no reason to yell at the poor guy like that."

Clove sees murder-red in her vision. How is telling her not to yell not telling her what to do? In fact, by stamping down her voice, he is about to see how loud she can get! Fuck Cato. Fuck Thresh and Rue and all the rest of the godforsaken tributes. Fuck Snow, especially, for not allowing her to die in that arena and stripping her of her dignity by forcing her to coexist with the rest of these worthless human beings. All in the name of carrying out his grand suicide mission!

"Is this who you want fighting beside you when you drop dead? These-these hopeless, bottom-feeding losers?!" she spits maliciously. She watches an evolution pass over Cato's face as facts begin to slide into place.

"I'd rather die alongside these losers then live next to someone as heartless and self-serving as you."

His statement, spoken calmly, renders her speechless. Clove feels the dark bubble that had been brewing patiently inside her before grow stronger, rise up, and consume her very soul. Her fingertips tremor and shake in a white-hot rage she has never felt before. Words find her, and she opens her mouth to curse his very existence. Except no sound escapes...

The bubble of rage that had filled her gut shoots suddenly to her head. Clove feels as if her skull is being shoved between a vice grip and held there, pressure slowly pushing in from all sides. The pain is so intense she has no control over the physical reaction of her own body. She hits the ground heavily with a broken scream, hands clutching helplessly above her ears.

Distantly, she is aware of Cato kneeling beside her, feels his hand on her back. But its weight feels no more substantial as if she felt it in a dream. Gravel digs in and sticks to her cheek as she breathes hotly into the dirt.

However, finding a breath is difficult in this state. Each sweet gulp of air feels like a bribe accepted from the Devil, himself. In return for the essence of Life, Clove begs for Death. She staggers, first, to her knees and wobbles precariously. Cato swims before her vision, but his expression is blurred.

"G'way," she gurgles out, swatting feebly at hands reaching for her to steady her. She is certain being set aflame would be less excruciating than this. Finally, she makes it to her feet and clumsily trips in the direction of the nearby trees. Underneath the crushing pain, shame and embarrassment begin their torment of her psyche. Cato's pleading for her to stop only fuel her shaking legs faster.

She crashes through the undergrowth with only one objective: get away and get away fast. Like an old dog who faces his time, Clove's only wish is to die alone in the complete darkness among the tall pines for company. She stumbles, bleary-eyed, a few quarters of a mile into the woods before collapsing for the second time onto all fours. The ground is softer here, and she presses her forehead into the fallen pine needles and allows the first few tears to leak from the corners of her eyes.

The air around her is cooler underneath the canopy of the trees, but nevertheless she feels herself breaking out in a sweat. The pain continues to lick seductively at her temples, but it is almost bearable alone and away from the concern in other's eyes. She slips her hand into her front pocket and digs out a few morphling pills. With no water in which to swallow them down, Clove crunches the capsules between her teeth. The quicker onset of them working is a fair trade off of how bitter and vile the taste is. Clove chokes through the lightning-lit fire inside her as it slowly gives way to a dull, persistent, yet more manageable, throb. As the torment of pain leaves her, embarrassment creeps in to settle its weight in her bones.

To have such a horrendous migraine in front of everyone, especially Cato, made her seem weak and child-like. The anger she had felt towards him is still present, setting her teeth to a slow grind. Clove considers his actions in the past week the deepest sort of betrayal. Although she did not consider him her friend, he was her teammate and more importantly, her District-mate. Did he have no loyalty to his family and neighbors? Assisting the rest of Panem scum as he was is the equivalent of turning your back on everything you know in her eyes. He was bringing such shame to their district. They would demand his explanation. His trial. His _head_.

She sits up finally, leaning back on her heels and staring up at the canopy of the trees overheard. Although they receive direct orders from the Capitol, Career districts are big on doling out internal punishment. They would consider what he is doing an act of treason, as archaic as that might be. She is dimly aware of her own role in this situation, but the anger she has directed at him overshadows all rational thought processes. His actions in the last week confuse Clove. First, it seemed like he had her back. Now, she doesn't know anymore. Is Cato even worth defending anymore?

She mulls this question around in her head longer than the others as she picks herself up, dusts the debris from her pants, and begins the walk back to their share cabin. Cato is nowhere in sight despite it being close to dusk now and training having ended over an hour ago. She fixes herself something to eat and waits.

* * *

He comes through the front door sometime later and halts, blinking sheepishly at her. "Sorry, I thought you were still out in the woods. I was looking for you," he explains, rubbing the back of his neck and averting his eyes from her penetrating gaze.

Clove is self-aware enough to know that being passive-aggressive is not in her genes. Going straight for the throat she bites out, "Why would you want to look for someone as heartless and selfish as me?"

Cato's mouth sets into a thin, pale line almost immediately and a wash of red rides high on his neck. "Your behavior today was uncalled for and deep down you know I'm right."

Clove bristles at his words, feeling the seething anger and hate from before consume her once more. "I didn't realize you appointed yourself my new guardian. Trust me asshole, if I wanted to adopt some daddy issues, I would go talk to Snow."

"Clove, we have to work together on this, our personal differences aside."

"What _personal differences_ are you talking about exactly Cato?!" she yells, feeling her restraint begin to wear thin inside of her. "You and I are exactly the same. We come from the same place."

"For starters, I'm trying to overcome that, and you're stuck doing what you've been brainwashed to do. I don't have to be a killer," Cato tries to explain, moving away from the door and towards her slowly. "Don't act like you're too dumb to understand that."

Her patience, so slippery and thin in her fingers before, snaps violently. She is fed up with how condescending his tone is with her. She lunges at him, whipping out a knife from her pants where they sit low on her hips. Although she is much smaller and lighter than he, Cato is not expecting her to charge him. His back slams up against the glass pane of the window behind them with her knife pointed at the soft flesh of his abdomen. Just a few inches forward and it would sink home.

The only thing that holds Clove at bay is his strong hand around her wrist. He's gripping so hard that she can feel the bones creak under the pressure and any moment now they will give way. She registers the pain, but the anger has bubbled up so large that it consumes her. It ebbs in violent waves at the forefront of her vision, and Clove realizes that the enraged noises she hears are coming from her.

"Look how weak you are!" he roars, accompanying the loud rush in her ears.

Clove twists her hand despite the pain of his grip, pushing the knife centimeters closer. He suddenly kicks out with his leg, and she's being swept off her own. Cato straddles her, scraping her hands across the rough floorboards where he's pinned them up above her head. She hisses up at him, writhing and bucking to dislodge his larger frame. He has her pinned like a moth to a corkboard. A thick sludge of obscenities rise up and leak out of her mouth.

"We can't keep doing this!" Cato's face is contorted in fury, but his blue eyes are pleading with her. "We can't keep fighting each other."

He makes the mistake of loosening his grip on one of her wrists just enough for Clove to break loose and swing up with her knife. He jerks back just in time to avoid serious disfigurement, but the sharp point grazes across his jaw and nicks his lower lip in the process. Cato swears under his breath and pries the weapon from her hand and throws it across the room. It clatters to a stop underneath the edge of the couch, far out of Clove's reach.

He gingerly licks at the cut on his lip, glaring down at her. "You. Are. Weak. Clove."

He traps both of her wrists above her head with one hand, curling her fingers in towards her palms. His voice is filled with conviction and such sorrow that Clove can only stare silently up at him, feeling the anger seep out of her slowly to melt into the floorboards.

"I have to protect you. Can't you see that?"

She immediately bristles again. "No, you don't have to. I'm able to take care of myself. Your help is unneeded and, most certainly, unwanted."

Cato smirks then. "I believe you. You are the most ruthless, craziest, blood-thirsty girl I've ever met in my entire life. You are a Career through and through, Clove. But being a Career doesn't mean that you're stronger than everything you come up against." His smile drops from his face at his last admission.

"Being a Career means you _are_ everything. You can't honestly expect me to believe you've completely turned your back on everything they've taught us?" Clove feels his pinkie finger run along the side of her wrist and it's such a foreign, disconcerting feeling that she momentarily loses hold of her argument.

"I think I have," Cato admits quietly. "You should feel what I feel, Clove. For once in my life, I'm uncertain, and I'm the weak one, and it's the most wonderful, horrible thing I've ever experienced."

From this close to him, she can tell he's not lying, and it startles her. If they don't have to be Careers, what are they?

He drags his fingers down the underside of Clove's wrist all the way to her elbow and follows the same path back up. She jerks her arm loose, unused to a gentle touch from Cato. The implications of his actions are not lost on her, however. His head begins to incline towards hers and fast as lightning, Clove has her hand up against his mouth blocking his descent.

"Let me up," she spits lowly, feeling the silky smear of blood from his cut lip spread across her ring finger.

His eyes are unreadable inky blue pools. He stares at her mouth for a moment too long, and Clove shifts her knees in warning. Sighing heavily, he rises to his feet slowly, but not before placing a dry kiss against her palm and fingers.

In her entire seventeen years of life, Clove avoided emotional contact at all costs. She isn't going to let Cato be the one to break her track record. Her entire life is still built around a Career's life, and it offers no room for anyone else. Especially someone like Cato. "You want to be the martyr, Cato? You want to lead everyone to their deaths? Be my guest, but do me a favor and cut the "we're only human" bullshit. Snow's original plan has backfired on him and pretty soon, he knows he'll have a mob on his hands."

"I say we play along with Snow until the very end, and then work together to save each other."

"There's no one here worth saving."

Her reply seems to shut him up for the time being. His expression is stony, and he releases a labored breath before leaving the room. Clove's blood boils underneath her skin. Cato has no right to hold his self-proclaimed superiority over her head since he's decided to dabble in sainthood. His body masks a killer, and she doesn't care what he says. There's no running away from that.

He can turn over as many new leaves as he wants, but the other side will always continue to be withered and dead.


End file.
